Gun Powder

Aug 21, 2008

When I try to sleep
I wish I rather weep.
Wash away with tears,
My sorrows and fears.

Once the heart of Gold
is now so cold.
What glowed like fire.
smells like burnt tire.

With the passing tide
Am I more dead inside?
Is this it?
No, Somewhere in the ashes
Something is lit.

Only the fuse has burnt...
and left is the Gun Powder.